


one more time

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton's Ripped Shirts, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sad with a Happy Ending, Stitches, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26879464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: They don’t talk about it.Bucky thinks they should, probably. But they don’t. It’s like all the other encounters, and by the next time Bucky sees him, Clint is back to his usual self. He cracks jokes, teases Steve, steals Nat’s coffee mug out of her hand and takes a dramatic slurp. If it wasn’t for the fading bruises and the still-healing wounds, Bucky would have no clue that Clint spent an hour crying into his arms outside a dumpster.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 43
Kudos: 378
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	one more time

**Author's Note:**

> Filling my 'touch starved' square for WHB. No beta, all mistakes are mine, etc
> 
> I imagine this set after Freefall #6, for some reason. It just...seems to fit, mood-wise.

The first time it’s just a series of gashes down his side, carved over his ribs and bleeding with a sluggish enthusiasm. Bucky only gets a good look at them because Clint’s shirt is just absolutely in _tatters_ , like a wild animal caught it. He’s laying on the couch, one arm thrown above his head, looking beat to hell and utterly exhausted. Blood rolls down his side, tracing red paths over his pale skin before dripping onto the couch. Bucky winces. “The hell happened to you?”

Clint blinks at him, then taps his ear with a slow finger. “Can’t hear ya,” he says, loudly, a little atonal, and Bucky notices his hearing aids are gone.

“What happened?” Bucky repeats, trying to mouth the words a little more clearly.

It must work, because Clint sighs and gestures vaguely with one hand. “Shit mission,” he says, and closes his eyes.

Bucky sighs, abandoning his quest for orange juice. He goes to the infirmary instead, pulling out a suture kit, and brings that and some bandages back to the couch. He taps Clint’s leg and holds them up, silently asking.

“You don’t have to,” Clint says.

Bucky shrugs. _I want to,_ he thinks, although he’s not really sure why. He and Clint are friendly, but that’s about it. They don’t spend much time together outside of missions, and Bucky’s certainly never played nurse to him before. But there’s just something about the weary, beaten expression on Clint’s face that makes Bucky either want to hug him or help him.

He suspects the first one might be rejected, and also Clint’s _bleeding,_ so Bucky settles for the second. Clint grunts his permission, tugging the rest of his shirt out of the way—not that there’s much, it’s absolutely _ruined_ —and rolls a little further onto his side.

Bucky holds up the anesthetic, and Clint shakes his head. “No.”

Bucky looks at him, then at the wounds, raising an eyebrow. Clint shakes his head again, a determined look on his face.

“Fine,” Bucky says, and gets to work.

It takes twenty-five stitches to close the wounds. Clint never even flinches.

* * *

The second time, it’s a wound on his forehead, bloody and painful looking. He nearly trips over his own feet as he stumbles into the lounge, one arm around Natasha’s shoulders. Bucky scrambles to his feet as she drops him on the couch. “What—”

“Don’t ask,” she says, fury in her voice, and she leaves. A few minutes later, she comes back with the suture kit, muttering under her breath in Russian.

“I’ll do it,” Bucky says, holding his hand out. “You look like you’re gonna kill him with it.”

“I’m tempted,” she growls, but hands it to him.

Bucky sits next to him, wiping the blood off his face. “What happened?”

“Idiot thinks he has to save everybody,” she says, and Bucky suddenly sees the anger for the stress it is, and the worry, and he understands. “He’s lucky this is all that happened.”

Clint doesn’t say anything. Bucky glances at his conspicuously blank ears. “He lose his aids?”

“He took them out,” Natasha says. “Unfortunately for him, I can yell in sign language.”

She signs something then—probably rude, judging from the expression and the forcefulness of it—and walks away, leaving him to Bucky.

Clint sighs and rubs a hand over his face, grimacing as he gets blood on his hands. “You don’t have to,” he says, louder than usual. “Again.”

Bucky shrugs and picks up the kit. “I want to.” He holds up the anesthetic. Not surprisingly, Clint shakes his head.

_Why?_ Bucky mouths, and Clint just shakes his head again. Bucky sighs and pushes him down onto the cushions, then cleans out the wound and stitches it up with careful hands.

Clint’s eyes are shining with tears by the end of it, but he doesn’t flinch this time either. As soon as Bucky’s done, he pushes himself upright with careful movements and offers him a shaky smile. “Thanks.”

Bucky nods and cleans up the stuff. When he comes back to the lounge, Clint is gone, with only a slight dent in the cushions to prove he’d been there at all.

* * *

The third time is the worst. It starts with a text, lighting Bucky’s phone up at five in the morning.

**Could use a hand.** And then a set of coordinates follows.

Bucky looks blearily at his screen, rubbing his eyes as he tries to force his brain online. He doesn’t ask for clarification, just grabs some medical supplies, shoves them into a backpack, and goes.

It takes him twenty minutes to get there, and he arrives to find Clint in an honest-to-god dumpster, tired and beaten. Bucky hauls him out before cataloguing injuries— _another_ ripped shirt, either broken or very bruised ribs, gouge on his leg, scrapes across his knuckles. His nose is bleeding, his eyes blackening, and when he smiles, it’s bloody and a little feral. “Hey,” he says, voice thick.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky demands, kneeling next to him.

Clint shrugs. “Can’t hear,” he says, and taps his ear. “Batteries dead.”

He glances at the bag, then tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Expectant and waiting, like this is routine. Like Bucky’s just gonna stitch him up like always.

“No,” Bucky growls. “You don’t get to _use_ me like this—” He pokes Clint in the chest, making him hiss in pain and crack an eye open.

_Talk,_ he signs, and Clint blinks in surprise. _Now._

“No.”

_No help,_ Bucky signs, grimacing as he fumbles it. He tries again, makes it a little clearer.

Clint grimaces. “Fine,” he says—yells, almost—and starts to stand up.

Bucky yanks him back down. Probably not the best move, judging by the bitten-off yelp it gets, but he’s too mad for much else. _Talk,_ he signs again, the motion furious.

Clint glares at him, and Bucky glares right back. There’s a moment between them, stretching out into eternity, an almost tangible fury between them.

Then something in Clint’s expression cracks, like a mask breaking, and his whole face just _crumbles_. He drops his gaze to the concrete, breath suddenly hitching like he’s about to cry. “Just go,” he mumbles, waving a hand, and his voice wavers. “’S fine, I’ll get myself home—”

Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” he says, and then he signs it. “Just let me—” He stops, frustrated. He just wants to _help_ , dammit, wants to—

He studies Clint for a second, his broken, beaten expression, and remembers his impulse the first time he’d stitched Clint up. After a moment’s hesitation, he moves a little closer, then carefully wraps his arms around him. He keeps it loose, mindful of the numerous ways Clint’s already hurting, but doesn’t let him go. Not even when Clint half-heartedly pushes against him, mumbling something Bucky can’t quite make out.

When Bucky keeps holding him, Clint mumbles again, his breath catching in another sob. Then he’s suddenly moving, knocking Bucky on his ass as he practically crawls into his lap, curling up against him. It probably looks ridiculous, in all honesty. Clint’s taller than Bucky, all gangly and stretched out, but he fits perfectly against Bucky’s chest anyway. Like he’s belonged there his whole life, and only just now is sliding into place.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, shifting so he can hold him a little more comfortably. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

They sit like that for a _long_ time. Long enough that the sun starts to seep through the sky, turning the clouds grey. Long enough that Bucky’s ass starts to go numb, concrete hard and unforgiving underneath him. Long enough that the city starts to move around them, the hustle and bustle of city life slowly rearing its head.

Clint cries the whole time.

Bucky doesn’t let go.

* * *

They don’t talk about it.

Bucky thinks they should, probably. But they don’t. It’s like all the other encounters, and by the next time Bucky sees him, Clint is back to his usual self. He cracks jokes, teases Steve, steals Nat’s coffee mug out of her hand and takes a dramatic slurp. If it wasn’t for the fading bruises and the still-healing wounds, Bucky would have no clue that Clint spent an hour crying into his arms outside a dumpster.

He almost starts to doubt his own memory, but there’s a shadow of sadness on Clint’s face when he thinks no one else is looking, and it makes Bucky’s heart ache.

_Are you okay?_ he signs across the lounge, sitting up on the couch so Clint can see his hands better.

Clint blinks in surprise, and a slight smile unfolds on his face. He signs something back, too fast for Bucky to catch it.

_Slow,_ Bucky says. _Learn._

The smile widens, the first time Bucky’s seen him look happy in weeks. He signs again, a little slower, and Bucky shakes his head. He still doesn’t get it. _Sorry._

Clint comes a little closer. “Thought I imagined that,” he says, signing as he says it. “I was…out of it.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m tryin’ to learn,” he says. “I want to be able to talk to you.”

“You _are_ talking to me.”

“When your ears are out, moron.” Bucky pokes him, then immediately regrets it as Clint winces. “Sorry.”

Clint waves a hand. “It’ll heal.”

Bucky glances around. They’re alone, mostly. Thor’s struggling with the toaster again, and Nat’s watching, a tiny smile on her face. Neither one is paying attention to them.

He focuses back on Clint. “We gonna talk about that?”

“About what?”

“How you ended up in a dumpster.”

Clint’s face shuts down hard, an almost terrifying blankness settling over his features. He signs something fast again. _Don’t want,_ maybe? Something else, too. Mistake? “Shit happens,” he says, and shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry about it,” Bucky says. “It keeps getting worse.”

Clint scoffs. “Nobody’s making you help.”

“You texted and asked! I wasn’t gonna say no and leave you in a fucking dumpster—”

“Next time I won’t ask, then,” Clint says, and he leaves, walking away before Bucky can make any kind of response at all. All he can do is stare after him, annoyed and _hurt_ and more than a little pissed off.

He scrambles to his feet and follows Clint down the hall. “Hey,” he snaps. “ _Stop_ it.”

“Stop what?” Clint asks, and there’s a cold note in his voice Bucky’s never heard before. “I’m just walking.”

“Whatever you think you’re trying to prove. Whatever you’re getting yourself beat up for.” Bucky grabs his shoulder, spins him around. “Talk to me, Clint, you _owe_ me—”

“Fuck off,” Clint growls, shoving his hand aside. “You see me in a shit moment, and you think you know me? Leave me alone. I get it, I won’t call you again.”

“You cried in my arms for an hour,” Bucky counters. “You gonna brush that off? Gonna tell me you’re fine?”

“That’s the plan,” Clint says, glaring at him, like he’s daring Bucky to tell him otherwise.

“I just want to help you,” Bucky says. “I—fine, you don’t have to talk, but just—let me help you?”

“I don’t need your help,” Clint snarls. He shoves Bucky aside and keeps walking.

Bucky lets him go. He should follow, he thinks, but he doesn’t. Just stands there, watching Clint stalk down the hallway, and thinks he’s never met anyone who needs help as much as Clint does.

If only Bucky knew _how_.

* * *

He figures it out, after the fourth time.

True to his word, Clint doesn’t call him again. But when the pile of blankets on the couch turns out to be a very sad, very beat-up Clint Barton, Bucky goes and gets the medical supplies anyway. He’s not going to sit there and watch TV while Clint slowly bleeds next to him.

_No,_ Clint signs at him.

_Fuck off,_ Bucky signs back, and Clint blinks in surprise before a tiny smile curves his mouth. He holds out his arm, then, and Bucky stitches it up with careful, practiced movements. Clint watches his hands the whole time, face a mixture of both sadness and hope, and _that’s_ when Bucky gets it.

He tests the theory by reaching out and brushing the hair off Clint’s forehead. It’s longer than he usually lets it get, flopping down over his skin in a kind of adorable way. Bucky likes it. He also likes the way Clint quietly gasps at the touch, leaning into it almost unconsciously. Like he’s been desperate for it.

Bucky does it again, and Clint’s eyes slide closed, like he’s committing the sensation to memory. Bucky’s heart twists a little. “Hey,” he says softly, and Clint opens one eye to look at him. “You okay?”

It’s a stupid question, and it deserves the mocking smile and the, “Yeah, Buck, I’m good,” that it gets. Clint gets up from the couch and drops the blanket onto the cushions, then stretches, cracking his back. “Thanks for the stitches,” he says, and turns to go.

Bucky grabs his wrist—the good one—and stops him. “Hey,” he says, sudden thought occurring to him. He stands up so they’re more on an equal level, and says, “Other than me, when was the last time someone gave you a hug?”

Clint _visibly_ thinks for a moment, which just makes Bucky hurt more. Then he shakes himself, and pulls his arm away. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Bucky says, and he’d be hard-pressed to put into words _why._

Clint blinks down at him. Then just like outside the dumpster, his expression crumbles into sadness, and he pitches forward, throwing himself at Bucky. Bucky stumbles backwards, a little stunned, nearly falling onto the couch before he manages to right himself. “Easy,” he grunts, adjusting his hold. “Clint—easy, buddy, it’s okay.”

Clint buries his face in Bucky’s neck, all six foot three of him collapsing into Bucky’s embrace like his strings have been cut. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” Bucky repeats. “Come on, let’s take this somewhere a little more private.”

It’s somewhat difficult, given that Clint is clinging to him, but Bucky manages to maneuver them down the hall and to the elevator, taking them up to Clint’s rooms. He murmurs nonsense things the whole way, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around him.

They end up in Clint’s bed, Bucky leaning against the headboard and Clint wrapped around him like an octopus. He’s not crying this time, but he’s breathing raggedly, face still tucked into Bucky’s neck.

It’s almost a solid thirty minutes before he finally shifts, moving back and scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

He starts to get up, and Bucky tightens his hold. “Don’t you dare,” he says. “You don’t gotta talk to me, but you _clearly_ need this. You try and get up again, you’re gonna deal with Winter Soldier wrath.”

Clint snorts. “Alrighty then,” he says, and he sounds a little more like his usual self. “Duly noted.”

They’re quiet for a while. Bucky watches the sunlight slide over the wall, oddly content to just sit here and hold Clint. It’s nice, in a way. Relaxing.

Eventually, Clint sighs. “Bathroom,” he says, pushing at Bucky’s arms. “Please.”

“You’re coming back,” Bucky tells him, and Clint nods. And true to his word, he comes back a few minutes later, crawling into Bucky’s lap again and curling against him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mutters, even as he presses himself closer. “I can—I’m okay, really.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says dryly. “You’re the fucking poster boy for it.” He rubs his metal hand up Clint’s arm. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to. It’s kinda nice, anyway. To just sit here with you.”

“I like the way you touch me,” Clint says, and the tips of his ears go pink. “I mean—no, wait—“

Bucky snickers, and Clint squirms in his lap. “You do, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Clint protests, and what little Bucky can see of his face is red too. “I just meant—this. I like this. And when you stitch me up—you’re _nice_ about it.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Bucky says. “That why you keep getting injured? Trying to get my hands on you?”

Clint chuckles quietly. “No. That’s just…something better. At the end.” He sighs. “I’m not _trying_ to get hurt, I promise. It just happens.”

“Seems to happen a lot.”

“I’m accident prone.”

“Mm. And your vendetta against painkillers?”

“’S not a _vendetta_ ,” Clint mutters. “Don’t deserve ‘em.”

“That’s bullshit,” Bucky says. “You think gritting your teeth and taking it like a man is gonna make whatever happened better? You’re just being stubborn, at that point.”

“Hi,” Clint says. “I’m Clint Barton. Nice to meet you.”

Bucky grins despite himself. “Look, I know what it’s like, okay? To think you don’t deserve nice things, or people being kind to you. But you do, and I’m not gonna stop. You might convince yourself of that, but you’re never gonna hear it from me.”

“Okay,” Clint mumbles. “If you insist.”

“I absolutely insist.” Bucky gently scratches at the back of Clint’s neck, rubbing his fingers right along the hairline. Clint makes a soft noise and goes even more boneless against him. “You like this? This okay?”

“Okay,” Clint says again, this one a little happier. “Feels nice.”

“You didn’t answer my question, by the way.”

“What question?”

“When was the last time someone hugged you? Other than me. Not counting dumpster night.”

Clint shrugs. “Dunno.”

Bucky’s heart fractures a little. “Oh.”

“It’s really fine—”

“It’s not fine,” he interrupts. “Don’t even go there. I went seventy years without a single kind touch—I know what it does to a person.”

Another shrug. “Never really thought about it.” But there’s a desperation in the way he’s clinging to Bucky that indicates otherwise. Like he’s soaking the contact in, storing it up for later.

“You can always ask,” Bucky murmurs to him.

“Nat’s not the hugging type.”

“I meant _me._ ” Bucky pokes his head. “I’ll hug you. Whenever you want, long as we’re not in the middle of a mission or something. I like hugs.”

“I’ve never seen you hug anybody, ever.”

“I like hugging you,” Bucky amends. “You’re warm.”

“Good to know,” Clint says. “I’ll add it to my resume. _Warm. Good for hugs. Can be used as space heater in an emergency._ ”

Bucky laughs. “You’re a dick,” he says, and Clint laughs too, sounding like his normal self. “But I like you.” He pats Clint on the back. “Have you eaten today?”

“I—” Clint pauses. “No. I forgot.”

“Okay. You stay here. I’m gonna go make you dinner.”

Clint’s quiet for a moment. Then he moves, shifting to look Bucky in the eye. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t eaten,” Bucky says. “Why else?”

“I can make my own food—”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky says, loading the words with all the sincerity he can muster. “Christ, Clint, it’s not a hardship for me to bring you something. Will you please just let me?”

Clint studies him for a moment, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Bucky doesn’t add anything else, he nods, tired and slow. “Alright.”

“Pick a movie,” Bucky says, pointing at the TV perched on the dresser opposite. “Or a show or whatever. What do you want to eat?”

“I’ll eat anything,” Clint shrugs. “Surprise me.”

Bucky ends up making soup, mostly because that’s the only thing he can find after an extensive search of the kitchen. Clint’s twisting the bed comforter in his hands by the time he comes back, two bowls balanced on a tray. A relieved expression crosses his face when Bucky nudges the door open.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, putting it on the bed. “Took me a bit to find them, I swear Stark orders out for every meal that’s not breakfast.”

“He orders breakfast out too,” Clint says, picking up a bowl. “I think the cereal’s for show.” He points at the TV. “You good with this?”

_“Blade Runner?_ Sure.”

“Cool,” Clint says, and he starts it as Bucky climbs onto the bed next to him. As soon as he’s settled, Clint leans against his shoulder, hands wrapped around the bowl and eyes on the screen.

They end up watching another movie after that, and it’s not until Clint’s starting the third one that Bucky picks up on what he’s doing.

“I can stay,” he says. “For the night.”

Clint’s hand tightens around the remote. “You don’t have to,” he says, barely audible.

Bucky gently pulls it from his hand. “I want to,” he says, like he always does, and he signs it too. Clint’s eyes light up at the motion of his hands.

“I’d like that,” he says, his hands tracing the words. “Please.”

Bucky takes the bowls back to the kitchen, then goes to his own rooms to get ready. Clint looks relieved again when he walks in the door, like he was half-afraid Bucky wouldn’t come back at all.

They arrange themselves in bed, curled around each other, Clint’s back against Bucky’s chest. “This okay?” Bucky asks, resting his left arm over Clint.

“Yeah,” Clint mumbles, already sounding asleep. “’S great, thanks.”

Bucky’s nearly asleep himself when Clint’s fingers wind into his, and there’s a quiet _thank you_ whispered into the night air.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky murmurs, pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to his head. “Anytime.”

* * *

The fifth time doesn’t need stitches at all. Just a couple butterfly bandages and a stiff wrap to support a strained wrist. Clint’s still got that tired look in his eyes, and Bucky’s still wondering what he’s doing to beat himself up so much. Clint doesn’t offer the information, though, so Bucky doesn’t ask. He just ties off the bandage, then thumbs over the scrapes on Clint’s knuckles. “These should be okay,” he says. “Anything else?”

Clint chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then blurts out, “Hug me?”

Bucky immediately folds him into his arms. “Sure,” he says, and Clint makes a happy little sound that melts his heart. “Proud of you for asking.”

It’s short this time, only a minute to so before Clint pulls back. “Thanks,” he says, and holds up his wrist. “I should ice this—”

“I’ll get it.”

“You don’t gotta—”

“I know I don’t gotta,” Bucky says, and he reaches out, tilts Clint’s chin up. “But I _want_ to.”

“Okay,” Clint whispers, and he smiles, a little crooked, soft and unsure. “Gonna take care of me one more time, huh?”

“If you’ll let me.”

The next part happens without his conscious permission—one moment he’s standing, the next he’s leaning down, pressing his lips against Clint’s.

They pull back at the same time, both a little shocked. Bucky stares at Clint, and Clint stares at Bucky, and there’s a moment of sheer, awkward silence—

Then Clint’s reaching up for him, pulling him into another kiss with a quiet, desperate moan. Bucky goes easy, nearly dropping onto the couch with the enthusiastic way Clint drags him into it. It’s like that moment in the alleyway—a feeling of _rightness_ , of fitting together, like this is what they should’ve been doing all along.

Clint breaks it off with a little gasp, one hand still entwined in Bucky’s shirt. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “That happened.”

“Sure did,” Bucky agrees, unable to stop a little smile from spreading over his face. “You okay with it?”

“I’ve never been more okay,” Clint says, honest and open, and Bucky believes him. “Again. More.”

“Ice,” Bucky says, prying his hand off. “Your wrist—”

“One more time,” Clint says, holding on tighter, and Bucky can’t help but smile.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and leans down again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] one more time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670900) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




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